Louisiana History Collection - Part 1

by Jennifer Blake

  “The prospects for trade have never looked better,” Jean said, his manner offhand.

  “Or the chances for success against the smuggling patrols worse.”

  “A body would think they would be more lax, now that the war is over,” Captain Dodsworth complained.

  Pierre swirled the rum in his glass. “The war won’t be over between our countries here until one of them is supreme in the New World.”

  “It will be us, my friend. We work harder and we don’t give up.”

  “You will wear yourselves out,” Pierre said with a laugh, “or else the Indians will kill you for pushing them from their lands. We take life easier, we French, as a gift instead of a task, and so we will endure in peace beside the savages when you English are long back on your little island.”

  Touchet gave a short laugh. “Ah, you voyageurs, you talk big but you never build anything, will never have anything.”

  “Nor do we destroy anything,” Pierre said with dignity. “What more do we need except a boat, food and drink, maybe a little tobacco or a bit of gambling to liven the days?”

  “Riches? A fine home? Servants to work so you may take your ease?”

  “Bah! Such things can be torn away overnight. What matters is people, family and friends.”

  “You won’t mind, then, if you are bested in trade or if some man comes along and takes Mademoiselle Cyrene from you with an offer of better things?”

  Pierre’s blue eyes took on a sparkle. “Trade is a gamble and I’ll not be beaten at it if I can help it. As for Cyrene, we do not hold her. She can go if she wishes, but she has too much good sense, I think, to be fooled by fine talk and fancy show.”

  Cyrene, meeting Pierre’s gaze as he finished speaking, thought there was a message in his words for her. Not for the first time, she wondered if she had been a fool. But no, she had known well enough that she was not a prisoner of the Bretons. It was their affection, and their fears for her, that caused them to guard her. What Pierre meant her to understand was that they trusted her judgment and had transferred the right to protect her to René because of it. She wished that she could feel so certain.

  Captain Dodsworth reached out to cover Cyrene’s hand where it rested on the table edge. “Mademoiselle Cyrene is one of those rare creatures, a handsome woman with a mind under her hair. She will not be fooled.”

  Since she knew very well that the captain not only had sharp business instincts but a wife and three children as well, Cyrene was less than overwhelmed by the compliment. She gave him a slight smile while wondering if Madame Dodsworth was considered a rare creature by her husband. She somehow doubted it.

  René, watching Dodsworth fondle Cyrene’s hand, was surprised to feel the steady rise of irritation. He should be paying attention to the men, listening to them talk, feeling out their intentions, but again and again his attention strayed to the only female at the table. Her poise there in the midst of that all-male gathering was remarkable. She did not put herself forward, but neither did she withdraw into silence. She did not join in the risqué comments, but gave no sign of being offended by them, not even for the sake of convention. Her hair shone like molten gold in the light of the whale oil lamps, and her skin had the sheen of pearls. The black depths of her eyes held quick thought and a secret, elusive amusement that was fascinating, that he would give much to be able to share.

  René wanted, suddenly, to stand up and knock the fatuous, grinning Rhode Islander flat on his backside, then scoop up Cyrene, throw her over his shoulder, and carry her from the ship back to the bay shore. There he would make love to her until they were both breathless and intoxicated with the richness of it. They would lie together in splendid nakedness among the furs that made up Cyrene’s pallet, and he would press his lips to every delectable inch…

  Madness. He sat still, breathing deep, willing composure. He could not remember ever having such a vivid and nearly uncontrollable flash of desire before, not even when he was young and callow. He didn’t quite know what to make of it, as he did not know with certainty what to make of the woman who had caused it. He only knew that he was going to have to be on his guard. He could not afford such impulses.

  “Our lady smuggler is unusual,” Touchet was saying, “but is still a woman for all that. She must know she would be superb in silk and lace. The man who can give them to her will be amply rewarded, I have no doubt.”

  The man’s tone was oily. René gave him a sharp glance. A frown appeared on Pierre’s face. Cyrene turned to stare at him, her gaze cold though a flush of annoyance and dislike for being placed so squarely at the center of attention mounted to her forehead.

  “Are you suggesting that I can be bought for a few lengths of cloth?” she asked.

  “An expression only, Mademoiselle Cyrene. I refer to a certain way of life, to luxury and ease. Don’t tell me they have no appeal?” The lips of the marquise’s agent were twisted with cynicism though his gaze, resting on the soft white curves of her breasts above her bodice, was avid.

  “I can’t say that it does, if I have to sell my soul for it.”

  “Your soul? I doubt that’s what the buyer will want in return.”

  Jean came to his feet with Pierre not far behind him. “That’s enough, Touchet,” the younger brother said.

  The weasel-faced man looked at Jean. “The watchdogs awake. How very affecting.”

  René could remember no conscious decision to intervene. One moment he was watching Touchet, the next he was on his feet. He divided a level look between the Bretons before turning to Touchet in the chair next to him. He leaned over the smaller man, bracing his knuckles on the table. “The duty for this watch is mine,” he said, “and I am indeed awake. Cyrene is not a subject for discussion at this table or elsewhere, nor are her wants and needs.”

  Touchet looked him up and down slowly. “You, I assume, will be looking after them as well as her good name and her… soul?”

  “Precisely. Whatever she wishes can be hers; she has only to ask.”

  There was no need to add the last, but saying the words gave him real satisfaction. The arrested look in Cyrene’s eyes also pleased him. If she had thought he would remain strictly confined to the place she had assigned to him, she was in for even more of a surprise. He had stayed at court too long, he knew that now; he had nearly forgotten how good it felt to speak plainly and to take simple direct action. He could not remember when he had felt more reckless or more determined. Or more guilty.

  Cyrene heard René’s declaration with disbelief. Almost as disturbing was the fact that the Bretons made no objection; in fact, they merely settled back in their seats as if the situation were well in hand. She felt marked, singled out as the possession of René Lemonnier. It was enraging. That she had brought it upon herself made no difference. Before the night was out, she would set M’sieur Lemonnier straight. Whatever she wished, indeed! She would tell him what her wishes were, and then they would see how well he complied.

  Captain Dodsworth filled the breach by beginning to talk of the trade goods he had brought, particularly some fine faïence ware bowls and pitchers he thought might be of interest to Cyrene. He was on the point of turning to give the order to have the items displayed when there was a stir in the doorway.

  The ship’s officer on duty stepped inside. “Your pardon, Captain,” he said, his tone carefully neutral. “There are Indians on the beach. Seems they want to parley.”

  Cyrene’s first thought was that it was the renegades, that the savages had followed them and had come to demand that their prey be turned over to them. The same thought occurred at once to the Bretons, for they shoved back their chairs and sprang to their feet, heading out on deck. Captain Dodsworth, calling for his spyglass, followed, with the others behind him.

  The Indians had built a fire. It was a leaping fountain of light on the dark shore. Figures moved around it, apparently without aim, black silhouettes against the flames. Overhead, the stars pricked the chill night sky with points of
diamond brightness. The ship moved slowly up and down on the swells, with the water lapping at the hull. Somewhere from the bow came the low voices of men talking.

  The spyglass was brought. Captain Dodsworth trained it on the Indians around the fire. Long seconds passed as he stared at them. Finally he brought the glass down and rubbed his eye.

  “Choctaw,” he said. “Old Drowned Oak’s band.”

  Pierre grunted. Cyrene let out a sigh. Jean gave a low, mirthless laugh. Drowned Oak was the chief of a small Choctaw tribe allied to the French; he was also the father of the Indian woman known as Little Foot who had spent two winters with Jean some twenty years before, the woman who was Gaston’s mother. Little Foot was not a doting parent, but she did tend to keep watch over the child she had borne and the man who had fathered him. If Drowned Oak was here now, it was because Little Foot had discovered that the Bretons had left the flatboat and knew enough about them and their business to guess at why and where to find them. Her purpose in bringing her father and his people would be simple. She would want first choice of the trade goods. And would expect special terms.

  The atmosphere and inclination for close trading had been shattered. It was decided by mutual consent to postpone the matter. Captain Dodsworth, as a gesture of goodwill and for the sake of a closer look at the savages, ordered his longboat let down and had himself rowed ashore with the Bretons.

  The Indians were waiting when the pirogues grounded on the beach. Some of the younger men pulled the prows of the crafts farther up on the sand so that the passengers would not have to get their feet wet, but the elders held back in dignified stances, ready to give their formal greetings. Once these were done, there were smiles all around as the captain brought out kegs of tafia and rum. It was a crime to sell liquor to the Indians, but there was none in giving it to them, and its power to impart goodwill was great, if short-lived.

  Everyone settled around the main fire with cups and beakers in their hands. The talk began. Orange sparks spiraled skyward, dancing in the gray columns of smoke. The fragrance of the burning wood blended with the salt-and-mud smell of the marshlands, the freshness of the night, and the warm, wild odor of human bodies dressed in leather and wool. Some of the older Indian women sat on the outskirts of the circle about the main fire, while the younger ones moved here and there, laying out bedding, feeding babies, and bedding down toddlers. Older children scampered in circles, playing tag, running races.

  Cyrene sank down at the fire beside the Bretons. For a time she enjoyed the exchange of solemn compliments and the round of tales. She had picked up enough of the Choctaw language so that she could follow the stories and boasts, each more fantastic than the last. Soon, however, the drone of voices, the warmth of the flames, and her exertions of the day lulled her to near somnolence. She yawned and blinked and yawned again. When the urge to put her head down on her knees and shut her eyes became nearly irresistible, she knew it was no use fighting any longer.

  She was just ready to get up and go quietly to her shelter when she felt Jean stiffen beside her. She glanced at him, then followed his gaze to where an Indian woman had approached the fire. It was Little Foot. A woman of majestic stature, she had thick black hair, which she wore in a single braid, and bold features. She waited until she was sure she had Jean’s notice, then she beckoned with an abrupt movement.

  Cyrene could sense Jean’s reluctance to answer the summons. Beyond the fact that it had been something less than courteous, she could see no reason for it. There was no enmity between the two of them so far as Cyrene knew. Little Foot, her value among the men of her own tribe much enhanced by her sojourn in a white man’s bed, had long ago taken an Indian husband and given birth to other children. After being widowed, she had occupied herself with a series of affairs, each more short-lived than the last. Jean visited her from time to time and sent her gifts, and Gaston spent a few months every summer with her among the Choctaw, hunting with them, learning their woods lore, being made much of by their women.

  Little Foot beckoned again. Jean sighed, then got to his feet and threaded his way to the outer edge of the circle. Little Foot joined him, and together they moved away into the darkness. Taking advantage of the disturbance Jean had already made, Cyrene followed after him for her own escape.

  She did not mean to eavesdrop. Her sole intention was to reach her pallet and crawl into it. It was not her fault that Jean and Little Foot’s quarrel caused them to stop not three paces from where her shelter had been set up on the edge of the encampment. Even then she did not stand listening but swerved around them and continued on to duck under the piece of leather that closed off the end of her shelter. She had dropped down on her bear fur in the darkness scented with resin from the peeled poles and was taking off her shoes when Little Foot’s clear, hard tones reached her.

  “How can you say I have no right after what I have done for you? Do you think it’s so easy? Do you think I like it? If so, you are one mad Frenchman. You said I would be repaid. Now I ask this small thing, and you say I want too much? This I cannot bear!”

  “Be reasonable, Little Foot. We are not rich men, my brother and I.”

  “Do I ask for riches? No! It may be I should talk to Gaston. He would be very interested in what I have to say. Or perhaps the other one would pay in gold to hear me. If that should happen, you could use your trade goods to—”

  Cyrene had to grin at Little Foot’s ribald suggestion as to what Jean might do with his trade goods. Her amusement receded as quickly as it had come as Jean issued a sharp command and their voices died away out of hearing. She had never known Little Foot to be importunate before, much less threatening. She was usually rather merry and placid, though dignified with it. Something had upset the Indian woman and Cyrene wanted to know what it was. She would make a point of asking Jean about it in the morning.

  Cyrene had been asleep an hour, perhaps two, when the soft scuff of a footstep woke her. She lay for a moment, listening. The sound had come from directly outside her shelter, she knew, but it was not repeated. Then came a soft rustling as the leather flap was lifted and someone bent to enter.

  “Who’s there?” she said sharply.

  “Your protector.”

  René. His words were dry and precise. Too precise. He was either angry or drunk, and Cyrene could not make up her mind which would be most disturbing. She sat up, pulling the bearskin with her. “What do you want?”

  “Why, to share your pallet. What else?”

  Her heart leaped inside her chest. “That isn’t funny.”

  “It wasn’t meant to be.”

  “We have an agreement. I expect you to follow it.”

  There was a quiet noise and a heavy piece of clothing like a coat landed on the foot of her pallet. “Willingly,” he said, his voice low, “only the Breton brothers seem to expect me to be with you. I offered to stand guard duty with Gaston but was all but escorted here.”

  “Escort yourself elsewhere.”

  “There is nowhere else.”

  “I don’t care!” she said, leaning forward in her urgency. “You can’t stay here.”

  “Why not? Are you afraid of me?”

  “Certainly not, but I don’t want you in here. I don’t want your protection. Can’t you understand that?”

  “I am not deficient in intelligence — or understanding, which is not always the same thing. You have made yourself abundantly clear. Now can you understand that I have no intention of shivering on the damp ground for the sake of our agreement? Can you bring yourself to believe that I don’t lust after your magnificent body, at least at this moment, and have no intention of pressing unwanted attentions upon you?”

  “Don’t you?” She had meant the words to be scathing. Instead, they had a disconcerted ring.

  “No. Unless you request it, in which case I will be happy to oblige, as I said earlier this evening.”

  “Never!”

  “Then you’re safe.”

  “Oh, yes,” she cried, �
��while everyone assumes I’m your woman.”

  “That seems to be unavoidable.”

  “Not to me, not if you get out and stay out!”

  He made no answer. His waistcoat plopped down onto the pallet followed by something lighter, which must be his shirt.

  “Stop this,” she said, her voice tight, “or I will scream so loudly you’ll have every man, woman, child, and dog in here.”

  “It’s going to be a little crowded, isn’t it? And public?”

  “I mean it!”

  “Then again, preventing such a racket might make a fine excuse for me to kiss you thoroughly. I was thinking about how much I would like to do that earlier this evening while you flirted with Captain Dodsworth.”

  “You were — I was not flirting with the captain!”

  “It was a fine imitation.”

  She knew she was allowing herself to be distracted. It was only while she reviewed her position. Screaming did not seem likely to be of much use, particularly if the Bretons were aware of where René was at this moment.

  “I was only being friendly for the sake of trade.”

  “Using your charms for commerce? There are words for women who do that.”

  “You know very well I meant no such thing!”

  He sat down to remove his boots. “I do know, none better. But not everyone has my knowledge of your cool nature. You should be careful of what you say.”

  “Cool nature? Because I don’t fall into your arms again after having had a sample of your practiced lovemaking? What conceit!”

  “Isn’t it?” he agreed, his voice even. “Of course you could always prove me wrong.”

  “Hah! You may gull some poor chambermaid or silly nobleman’s wife with such a ploy, but not me. I don’t have to prove anything to you.”

  He removed his breeches and lifted the bearskin, sliding under it. “No, you don’t. All you have to do to put me firmly in my place is to go to sleep.”

  Her muscles went rigid as she felt the waft of cool air and slide of the bearskin across her shoulders as he pulled it up over him. What she disliked most was his confidence. It was not, apparently, misplaced. She could see no way out of this predicament in which she found herself. As he shifted, searching for a comfortable position, his knee brushed the calf of her leg.